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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23340865">there will be love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipadeea/pseuds/zipadeea'>zipadeea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DCU, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adoption, Difficult Decisions, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Newborn Children, a discussion was had, but they found an alien baby, like you want it to be love at first sight, martha kent is a realist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:07:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,608</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23340865</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipadeea/pseuds/zipadeea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are we sure the kid’s an alien?” Jonathan asks for the third time, swilling the whiskey around his glass as he stares at the baby in the laundry basket on the table before them, eyes wide.  </p><p>Martha bites her lip before reaching for the bottle in front of Jonathan and pouring herself some more whiskey, knocking it back in one swallow. She winces at the burn down her throat and takes a deep breath. “Of course not. But do you have a better explanation?” </p><p>***</p><p>After the shooting star Martha Kent wishes on crashes in the back field, she and Jonathan have a decision to make.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clark Kent &amp; Jonathan Kent &amp; Martha Kent, Jonathan "Pa" Kent/Martha Kent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>there will be love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This actually evolved from another story I was writing. But really, a spaceship crashes in your backyard with a baby inside, you'd like to think it's love at first sight. But there had to be a discussion. There had to be ridiculous theories. There had to be some alcohol. </p><p>This is that story.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Are we <em>sure</em> the kid’s an alien?” Jonathan asks for the third time, swilling the whiskey around his glass as he stares at the baby in the laundry basket on the table before them, eyes wide.  </p><p>All the doors to the house are locked, the blinds tightly shut. The only light on in the house is illuminating them now, above the kitchen table. The shotgun rests next to Martha’s chair, shells loaded.  </p><p>Martha bites her lip before reaching for the bottle in front of Jonathan and pouring herself some more whiskey, knocking it back in one swallow. She winces at the burn down her throat and takes a deep breath. “Of course not. But do you have a better explanation?” </p><p>She thought it had been a shooting star at first, as she sat alone on the back porch of their new home. Made a wish even, closed her eyes and hoped until she heard the deafening crash in the back field.  </p><p>“Coulda been the Soviets, maybe one of their satellites got knocked off course. They’ve sent monkeys and dogs to space before, who knows what else they’d do?” </p><p>Martha snorts. “You watch too many movies. And this isn’t any language I’ve ever seen. It definitely isn’t Russian.” She pushes the parchment-like missive covered in tiny neat, very foreign hieroglyphs in an indistinguishable pattern.  </p><p>The letter had been in a small trunk at the foot of the baby’s seat in the ship, resting on top of stacks of what appear to be tin-foil diapers; a small cooler filled with bottles of some kind of milk; a few scattered blocks and rings; a plush, six-legged, neon-green horse with gills; and a few carefully folded onesies made out of something like Kevlar.  </p><p>Martha wonders if they’re machine washable.  </p><p>“He looks like a baby. He looks like a <em>newborn</em>.” Martha nods in agreement.  </p><p>They say he because based on the first frantic tin-foil diaper change, he is definitely a male. And he seems to piss and shit just like any other human Martha’s ever met. Same colors and everything.  </p><p>Same smells, too.  </p><p>He looks even tinier than he did in the spaceship, lying alone in their purple plastic laundry basket. Martha put a pillow on the bottom and lined the thing with the red blanket he’d been wrapped in from the beginning, hoping the navy Kevlar onesie they changed him into is warm enough for him. He’s not shivering, so she supposes he’s fine.  </p><p>He does look like a newborn, small and frail, with nearly translucent fingers and wispy black hair. He cries like a newborn, too, high and reedy and desperate. Martha’s heart clenches every time she hears it.  </p><p>He’s quiet now, though, fast asleep before them after a diaper change and a bottle of maybe-milk. He sniffs softly and turns his head a little as they watch, leaning closer to them.   </p><p>“Maybe he’s a time-traveler,” Jonathan whispers. “Maybe it’s a time machine, and he was sent here from the future--,” </p><p>“Does it matter?” Martha interrupts her husband, voice just as soft. Jonathan frowns.  </p><p>“Of course it does. If we take him to the hospital--,” </p><p>“If we take him to the hospital, we’ll find out if he’s human or not. So will many other people. And if he’s not human...Jesus, Jonny, we could be the only thing standing between this kid and a life in a cage. Who knows what people would do if...” Martha’s voice trails off, fear roiling in her gut.  </p><p>The world is never kind to that which it does not understand.  </p><p>“He might still be human, though, Marty. He seems human from what we’ve seen.”  </p><p>“Could be a shapeshifter. Maybe he has special alien powers. Maybe he’s actually fifty years old, and his species just ages much slower than ours. Maybe he’ll kill us both with lasers that shoot out of his eyes.” </p><p>Jonathan frowns.  </p><p>“What do you want to do about him?” Martha sigh turns into a growl of frustration.   </p><p>“I don’t know,” she lies, rubbing her hands down her face. They have to be smart about this. They have to be logical.  </p><p>They need a plan, and they do not have the luxury of time.  </p><p>Because they didn’t find this baby in a dumpster or abandoned by the side of the road. He crash-landed in their wheat field in a fucking spaceship, which is now covered by tarp in their storm cellar.  </p><p>If they call the police, there will be questions. Many, many questions.  </p><p>And the situation will be out of their hands.  </p><p>The <em>baby </em>will be out of their hands.  </p><p>“He could be dangerous,” Martha says, finally looking away from the baby to meet her husband’s eyes. He nods slowly. “If anyone ever finds out we hid something like this...” Martha gulps, then turns and pours herself some more whiskey.  </p><p>“He could be a Trojan horse. A bunch of diseases and plagues to kill us all off, shipped here in an innocent package to fool us naïve farmers.”  </p><p>Jonathan nods again. </p><p>“What would we do if he was dangerous? What if he attacked one of us? Do you think you’d be able to...” she looks down at the shotgun still leaned against her chair. Jonathan bites his lip and looks at the baby.  </p><p>“Let’s cross that bridge if we come to it.”  </p><p>“No. Let’s talk about it right now,” Martha says firmly. “Because we’re either bringing him to the hospital and calling the police when the sun rises tomorrow and he disappears from our lives forever. Or he stays with us, and we hide him and protect him and inadvertently become the most paranoid parents on the face of the earth for the rest of our lives.  </p><p>“And if he does stay, if we make him ours and he goes on a killing spree someday, if this kid ends up enslaving the world in the name of his alien overlords, that’s on us Jonny. He’ll be our responsibility if we keep him, and any Armageddon this child causes will be on us. So, we need to talk about this now.” </p><p>Jonathan is silent for a moment. Martha’s heart starts racing in her chest; the baby turns his head and looks right at her, as though sensing her apprehension.  </p><p>“Even if he’s not human Marty, he’s still a person. No, I couldn’t shoot him tonight if he started burning down the house with laser eyes, and that’s never going to change, especially if he stays. No matter what he does.” </p><p>Jonathan grips one of her hands in both of his. They’re weathered and calloused, tanned from working in the sun all day. She looks up at his face, at his nose spotted with freckles and his bright eyes. Jonathan smiles at her lightly before he continues.  </p><p>“But we’ll teach him, sweetheart. We’ll love him. We’ll show him how to be good and kind and fair, because that’s the job of all mothers and fathers.” Martha’s heart stutters again at the word mother, and the baby lets out a little mewl. “No matter who or what he is, we’ll show this kid so much happiness and respect and <em>love.</em> And we’ll all be better off for it.” </p><p>She can feel Jonathan’s eyes on her when he stops speaking, waiting for her reaction. </p><p>Her decision.  </p><p>Martha drops Jonathan’s hands and gets up from her chair, moving around the table to stand above the purple plastic laundry basket. The baby looks up at her, his blue eyes wide. His eyelashes are so long. There’s a stray curl resting artfully on the middle of his forehead. With gentle fingers, Martha pushes the curl back before leaning down and picking him up. </p><p>Jonathan is and always will be an optimist, no matter how bleak and cruel the world can be. He says all the right words, the pretty words, and down to the bottom of his heart, Jonathan believes them.  </p><p>Martha is a realist. And she already knows she’d rather watch the world burn than ever hurt a hair on their alien baby’s head.  </p><p><em> Their </em>alien baby. Jesus.  </p><p>But he <em>is</em> theirs, their alien baby. Their baby. Martha’s known it from the moment she plucked him out of the flaming wreckage and stared into his tearful blue eyes. There was a tug in her heart, a click in her brain, and Martha had the sudden and terrifying realization she would die for this kid.  </p><p>She would kill for this kid.  </p><p>She wonders idly if it’s some special alien power of his or just motherly instincts finally kicking in. </p><p>It seems her wish on the non-shooting star is coming true after all. </p><p>“We’ll have to figure out a name for him.” She tears her gaze away from the baby to stare at Jonathan again. He’s smiling that beautiful smile, the one that had her half in love already the first night she met him, and there are tears in his eyes when he stands up and wraps them both up in a hug.  </p><p>Nothing is resolved yet, not really. The baby will need a birth certificate, a social security number, a name. They need to buy more diapers because whoever sent this child here did not pack enough of the tin-foil ones, and Martha has no idea what alien babies can and cannot eat. She and Jonathan are signing on to days, months, years really, of trial and error, of paranoia and fear.  </p><p>There is no plan. There is no explanation.  </p><p>But the baby chooses that moment to reach for Martha’s pinky and grip it tight, and she knows Jonathan is right:  </p><p>No matter what happens, there will be love. </p><p>*** </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading, guys! Let me know your thoughts. Hope everyone is well and staying safe during this trying time. Sending lots of love and virtual hugs XXX</p></blockquote></div></div>
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